Above is a photo of my current work space.
This chair belonged to my grandfather. For most of his career, his work space was a lab in a cement factory. He liked to tell the story of how he moved from the shop floor to the lab at some point. The move had something to do with the fact that he didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in the break room listening to the dirty jokes some of the other guys were telling; he believed this set him apart and gained the attention of management and so he was given what was in his mind at least a promotion. He liked to tell that story as an admonition about integrity.
My grandfather used to sit in this chair, up in his bedroom office, and study his Bible. In this chair, I played with a collectable straight razor that he told me not to touch and ended up breaking the blade; I don’t know if I ever confessed it to him. From this chair, he’d watch Hee-Haw on Saturday nights, me sitting on the floor next to him, my grandmother in a recliner behind us. From this chair he recorded me singing songs that my mom had taught me, using one of those little flat tape recorders which were ubiquitous at that time. Over the years, I would sit in this chair, upstairs in his darkened office, and play those tapes back, mostly so I could hear his voice sing along behind mine.
The chair still squeaks loudly when you turn, and it’s uncanny how the sound erases the years.
I’m thankful for this space, for a few reasons actually.